Major Tom
by Salty Peanuts
Summary: I am broken, and so are you. But, you make my tired heart sing. Rochu


Inspired by a couple of hours on Tumblr reading the blog "Hetalia Shipping Confessions," and the raging fit that ensued. I guess I was kind of upset that so many people were ignorant of politics and history, and it saddened me that they were so eager to pair two characters together without doing the research. :(

But mostly... I must admit, I was pissed because I hated seeing my beautiful babies being stripped apart from each other. -sigh- Sometimes I think I take shipping a little too seriously, and am too passionate about it. Oh well, it is not like I have anything else upon which to release my pent-up passion. xD It is either I be an avid Hetalia shipper on the internet, or I go into the real world and do something _really_ dangerous and harmful to society, like become a politician... (oh snap)

But, I digress. Here I present to you this mofo, in hopes you will like it.

Secretly, I wish every single APH fan shipped Rochu. Maybe someday, it would be popular enough to stand up to the big boys, like UsUk and GerIta. xD But, I'm just wishing like the pathetic little gal I am.

Anyways, enjoy! This is my attempt at a new writing style.

* * *

I am broken, but so are you, Russia.

They broke me. They broke me in half, broke me into pieces, broke into me.

They thought I was a butterfly, as ridiculous as it was, and they crumpled me with their dirty, greedy fists. Though my wings were made of glass, and the shiny shards bit into their flesh, I couldn't make their blood flow. Their blood dripped, and could _merely_ drip, drop after hopeless drop. I was not a threat to them, but a nuisance, like a bee who stung their pinky finger.

Pathetic, isn't it? You must think I am. You must be thinking, "Oh, China, whatever happened to your effortless poise, flawless grace, your sharp, sweet tongue?

Your pride? _Your __fucking __pride__?_"

I don't know either. Don't ask me. Don't ask a carpenter to paint a Van Gogh portrait of your wife, silly boy.

Well, as if I should be talking down to anyone. I am no better. In trying to save beloved people from a horrible death, I drowned myself. Even as I am standing here now, a century after the fact, I can still feel my soul swirling in turbulent seas, being torn apart, thread by thread. I am not free. I will never be free.

They thought I was a butterfly with moonshine wings, and they wanted me to dance for them. To them, I was beautiful, _brittle_, exotic, _brittle_, elegant, _brittle_. And, as time went by, I had begun to believe them. Everything they said must have been right; the whole world had bowed down to them.

Besides, I enjoyed being cuckolded in their arms, my body tattered, my pretty limbs dismembered. I wanted to feel something, anything at all, even if it meant that as they were holding me, I was being burnt into smoke. All it took was a cigarette lighter, a hazy summer night, and a throe of weakness on my part.

At least watching the fireworks of my demise was amusing, while it lasted, even if my body was being reduced to ash.

I could lie to myself and my people, I could even lie to _them_ that I still had it together.

Wait, what? Of course I had it together, and I still do, even today! Can't you see? I am sewing my limbs back as we speak!

Here's my left leg that they had wanted for centuries. Don't worry, I'll fix it, even if I have to take the tourniquet and strangle it until it is black and blue.

Here's my left arm, that they, no, even _you_, to this day, still have not stopped lusting after.

I'll sew myself back together. In and out with the needle, and a stinging hiss every time my skin gets punctured.

All it takes is a _little_ more pain, then I'll be complete, like needle and spoon.

I'm still missing a toe, my favourite toe, that keeps on running away. Naughty thing, I will take it back someday, politely, and if that doesn't work, I have plenty of mushrooms in my basket that I have yet to drop. Haha.

(Oh, and by the way, Russia, you still have a piece of my skull. But, that's alright. You may have it, I suppose. Carve it into a pendant and keep it close to your heart. Though, I must admit that having a hole in the back of my head is very uncomfortable. But for you, and only you, I'm willing to suffer a little.)

Now, I feel like I rule the world.

And yet, I'm still broken.

But, there is one dirty little thing in which I take comfort in the most. You know what that is?

It's the fact that you are not any better than I am.

Who, no, I mean, _what_, have you become?

I don't even know what to call you anymore.

Once, you were so strange, so strange that I didn't know what to do with you. You frightened me, so much that it disgusted me. But, it was only because I was comparing you to myself, and my own ego was even more frightening.

What I didn't understand about you, was why would you insisted on taking yourself apart, then rearranging yourself back together, over and over again.

Were you mad? Was this due to your madness?

I figured that at least your chariots were painted gold, your clothing was handsome, and your curtains were lined with thick velvet. Surely that would have been enough for you? Apparently not.

You lived in a palace that protected you from your father's annual wrath. Wouldn't that be enough for you?

At the end of the day, if you hurt yourself out there, I would be most devastated! Wouldn't _that_ be enough for you?

You must have been mad. You were so greedy that you were hungry for hunger itself. Revolution after revolution, flag wave after flag wave. Surely your arms got tired and sore after a while, despite how warm they felt when they held me.

You must have been mad. To you, Europe wasn't Europe anymore.

Europe was a virgin waiting to be deflowered. It was an old virgin, wrinkly, wizen, and war-torn, but you were famished for the blood between its legs. You were so famished, in fact, that you were ready to crack its head open on the pavement and drink it like coconut juice. You did exactly that, because you were mad.

Europe was a blank canvas, and you had a bucket of red paint in your hand, with no artistic skills to boot. But, you didn't know that others wanted to keep it white, did you?

You must have been mad. You did not stand a chance against those monsters, and you were bound to fall if you did. I just knew it.

I _tried_ to stop you, so don't you dare blame it on me. I talked until my lips blistered, trying to convince you to snap out of it. I punched you in the head, hoping to at least physically knock out that brain tumour that must have plagued your conscience. I even made you choose between me and your own blindness. I threatened to leave you, if you didn't stop. But, you still wouldn't.

One night, I kissed you for the first, and last time. However, when I tasted the bitter vodka on your lips, I knew that you didn't mean anything you said to me, and someday, you would be hung over, and forget that we were ever together.

So, I left, and never regretted it.

You _must_ have been mad, because you did not chase after me when I ran.

You traitor!

* * *

I was not a traitor, China. I would rather be the logical coward, than still be chasing after this pipe dream that was too proud and stubborn to realize itself.

I owe you nothing. For hundreds of years, I made you my sole victim. But, I only had so much patience in trying to capture a prancing ballerina before I snapped her ribs and broke her ankle.

Why use tenderness, when you could knock them unconscious, spit in their face, and drag them back into your home? They'd stay, especially after you lock them up. However, when you starve them, they did become frail and despondent. But, they still stayed, and it was all the same.

Well, they weren't all the same, because _they_ weren't _you_.

I hated how I would pursue you 'till the ends of the earth, and you still would send me back, broken and defeated. What did you take me for?

You must have thought your head was too pretty to be crowned upon your neck. And it was, I admit, but you'd better watch your back. If I thought your head was pretty, others may too, and I was not sure if they were willing to send a couple hundred troops just to flirt and tease with you, like I would. They would defeat you, and take you as their own.

I knew how much you loved to play tag, despite that you couldn't run around in that garden of yours without falling into my arms, sweating and panting. You said that you were anemic or something, and you were prone to fainting because your blood was too cold.

You were more childish than you admit yourself to be, and I knew this, because I knew you better than anyone else, even yourself.

Pretending to faint was your trump card. But, you didn't know that when you placed your wager, you were gambling for the rights to your own body.

I knew back then that you were simply teasing, but instead of spitting in your face, dragging you back to my home and locking you up, I carried you to your bed. I planted a kiss on your head, closed the bed curtains, and left the room.

You were a sly little thing. The first time in my life I extended my unadulterated kindness to anyone, you had forsaken me, and still refused to surrender yourself.

From then on, it clicked in me that I was wasting my time, and I never tried again. There were many other lieblings that were easier to catch. I hung all of their heads on my wall, and browsed my gallery on rainy days, with a bottle of vodka in hand. Though I accepted that you were a lost cause, I never took down the wooden plaque with your name engraved on it.

But when I saw _them_ taking turns ripping you apart, I could only stand back and laugh, and sometimes take a piece of you for myself. I laughed when you stared at me with pleading eyes, begging me to stop. But, I didn't. You said you hated me after I cut your hair. But I figured, why hate me? They had done worse things to you than I had. I was a saint compared to them.

But whatever. I was over you, and had better things to worry about now.

I wanted more heads on my wall. Maybe not yours especially, because you didn't deserve me, but just as many as possible. I hated staring at a blank white wall in my living room. It made me feel lonely, and loneliness angered me.

The winters were cold here, nice and cold. If the rest of the world were to be plunged into an eternal winter, wouldn't it be a better place? At least, everyone would be all the same, even you China, as much as you wanted to set yourself apart from the rest of the world.

I hated how sunny it was in California, when I went there that one time. It made me melt, and sand got into my boots.

So when I got home, I retrieved my shotgun from that box I had up in my attic and started hunting again.

But, not before paying you a visit.

_Greetings__, __China__, __how __have __you __been__? _

_You__'__re __covered __in __your __own __shit__, __aren__'__t __you__? __I __almost __don__'__t __want __to __touch __you __any more__, __especially __after __Japan __did__. _

But, I guess you melted my heart permanently. I could feel it beating for the first time in my life, and it was aching. I saved you, and I vowed, for pride's sake, that it would be the last time. I even gave you a room in my house, and an allowance for you to buy nice things with. But I knew you so well, that you would leave me as soon as it was convenient to do so, as soon as the chains around your ankles loosened. You, someone so wonderful and perfect, would never want to be with me, and I wished I would stop kidding myself.

And you did. The moment the nuclear winter unleashed its wrath, the moment all the heads on my wall came crashing down, you fled like a frightened deer. I expected you to, anyways. I knew you too well, and realized that when the time came, I would be left alone in my big house, in front of my white living room wall, nursing my own wounds.

How old am I now? It doesn't matter; I change my birthdays too often. But despite that, I feel even older than you.

I am broken. No, wait. I had met you hundreds of years ago, which means, I have been broken all along.

* * *

_"Hello, China." I tipped my hat._

"Hello, Russia." I nodded, and looked away.

_"May I help you?"_

"You may, not that it would help much."

_"Would this help?" I put my arms around you and buried my face into your hair. It had grown longer since I last cut it, and now smells like flowers instead of dirt and sweat. I have missed you so much, and have waited for day you would come back to me. I realized, after you were gone, that I was only happy when we were together._

"Yes." If anyone else were to befall in your embrace, he would shudder from the cold and squirm himself free. But I never would. Cold feels warm, as long as I'm with you. But, I would never tell you that. I was still supposed to be mad at you, and only came to see whether you needed medical attention, then rub dirt in your wounds to make myself feel better.

_The wind blew across the field, brought with it the fresh scent of spring soil. I pulled down your ponytail, letting your loose hair billow with the wind like a cape. "Why have you come back?" I asked._

I sighed, mumbled something into your chest.

_"What? I can't hear you!" I teased, ruffling your head playfully._

I looked up, and cupped your cheek, as you closed your eyes, hovering your own gloved hand over my own. You brushed your lips against my fingertips, and that was when I smiled, for the first time in many, many years. "Because, you make my tired heart sing, Ivan." I said finally, and rolled on my tiptoes.

_Ground control to Major Tom..._

Fin

* * *

Notes: Named after a character in Bowie's song, Space Oddity.

Thanks for reading! Please review!


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